


Catalyst for Change

by Glittering_Darmallon



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Branding, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Pre-Slash, and body slaves, ergo: mentions of past non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 02:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14227380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glittering_Darmallon/pseuds/Glittering_Darmallon
Summary: When Branael asked Dorian about slavery, he knew he needed to tread carefully. But he had no idea just how carefully.





	Catalyst for Change

**Author's Note:**

> My fix-it sort of for that in game conversation with Dorian. It needed more. So here it is.
> 
> [My Lavellan, should you be interested](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1bPNwO6gE_mXVYELwIV3n-Z4UDhSqr_Vg/view?usp=sharing)

“It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s the way it is. When it’s all you’ve ever known it can be hard to break out of that mindset.” Dorian watched as Branael shifted in front of him, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. Yet, he was the one who brought it up. Dorian felt it best not to point that out. “It’s not something you question until faced with the alternative. I’m not sure many slaves even question it.”

A deep furrow formed between Branael’s brows. “So you’re implying that they...like it?”

“No, no. I only meant that Tevinter isn’t the only place where the lowest rungs of society have no way out. The South has alienages, and from what I know about them, the residents live in near squalor hopeful for whatever scraps everyone else deems to toss their way. At least in Tevinter a poor man may sell himself to provide for a family. Can you honestly tell me inescapable poverty is better?”

The step backwards that Branael took was small, yet noticeable enough that Dorian was about to beat a hasty retreat. He’d made a mistake, said the wrong thing, but before he could clarify, Branael spoke.

“And what about the people who don’t sell themselves? Those who are stolen and forced into that life.” His words were softer than Dorian would have expected. “I’m pretty sure they would disagree with you.”

Dorian folded his arms across his chest. “Well yes, that is...an unfortunate side to it.”

“Unfortunate,” he chuckled, the sound of it cutting through Dorian’s chest to punch him in the heart. “Did you have slaves?”

There was no way this conversation would end well, Dorian could see that now. Best to run damage control before it got out of hand and the Inquisition sent him packing. “No, but my family did, I’m sorry to say. My parents treat them well, if that’s any consolation.”

Branael’s lips twitched, but he gave no reply. Instead, he asked another question, his words even softer than before. “And...body slaves...did they own any of them?”

“What? No! Absolutely not!” The very thought of the idea was not only repulsive, but ridiculous to boot.

“Anyone of your Altus friends ever lend you the services of theirs?” It was hard for Dorian to imagine such rancor in words so quiet, but there it was dripping from Branael’s lips like venom.

Whatever attempt Dorian had made to diffuse the situation, had obviously failed since Branael had thrown this question at him. “No. I have never used the services of a body slave,” he said with such conviction it shocked him. “I may not have understood how slavery was viewed outside Tevinter, but even  _ I _ know that’s wrong. At least a prostitute gets paid for their services.”

Branael couldn’t meet his eyes. “Good.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to be a slave. That’s true, and it’s also true that I never thought about it until I saw how it was here. I cannot change that. But I suspect you don’t know either. Don’t believe that every tale of Tevinter excess is the norm.”

Dorian watched him worry his bottom lip between his teeth before retreating without another word. Well at least he didn’t tell Dorian to leave and not come back. Small victories. Still, the whole conversation made his head hurt. Maker, he needed a drink. Maybe the bartender would let him abscond with a bottle of brandy.

 

***

 

“Stop fussing, Inquisitor,” Cassandra chastised as she pressed a poultice to the burn on Branael’s neck. “If you don’t, I will make Bull hold you still.”

Branael shot daggers at her. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Dorian bit back a chuckle at the exchange. While things between him and Branael had been a bit icy the past few weeks, he sensed that he would be able to salvage a friendship at least. 

“I will if you keep squirming.”

Branael scowled like a petulant toddler. “Well, that shit burns. So excuse me for flinching. Damn prowler. I know I shot him full draw. How was he still able to throw an acid grenade?”

“Almost done,” Cassandra wrapped his wound with a clean bandage, “give it some rest and you’ll be fine tomorrow.” She bid him farewell and left the two of them alone under the awning on the edge of the camp. 

Branael sat silent for several moments staring out at the coast, and for a moment, Dorian wondered if the man had forgotten that he was standing there. Finally, Branael rose, shirt in hand, and as he lifted the garment over his head, Dorian saw it. Plain as day on Branael’s left shoulder blade, it was impossible to miss, as was its meaning.

“I know you’re staring, Dorian, and yes. It is  _ exactly  _ what it looks like.”

While his parents had never marked their slaves, he knew of owners that did. The whole process Dorian had always considered barbaric, even more so now that he found himself forced to confront ideas and practices he’d known all his life. Branded like cattle. It was cruel. His prior words to Branael curdled in his stomach, and he felt sick. 

No longer shirtless, he turned to face Dorian. “I’ve known both sides, and I’ll tell you without question, I preferred the alienage.” He walked away from camp, motioning for Dorian to follow. Once they were far enough from the others to have a bit of privacy, he sat down upon a rock and once more looked out at the turbulent waves. 

Dorian approached but didn’t sit until Branael patted the space next to him. “Were you stolen?”

“I was four. No, five I think.” He rubbed his forehead. “My mother and I were on our way home from where she worked as a laundress. It was late, and I don’t think she even saw them until it was too late. The ship from Treviso was packed full of us. I only really remember the smell.”

Dorian nodded, taking it in. “So you’re Antivan? Originally?”

“Yeah. Our master wasn’t as cruel as some of the stories I’ve heard. He preferred his slaves marked only with his brand. So our punishment was more subtle. He liked to mess with our minds… and he sure loved his body slaves.” Beside him, Branael shuddered. “I was seven when I realized what my mother’s role in the household entailed, and I wanted to kill him. I still do, but I’m old enough now to live with it I think.”

For once, Dorian was at a loss for words. How could anything he said offer any sort of comfort here.

“As soon as he started telling me I looked so much like her, that I was pretty like her, my mother knew I’d be doomed to the same fate. I was eleven when she helped me escape one night, gave her life to do it. I’ve always been good at climbing and hiding. Stowed away in a merchant caravan bound for Ostwick. I stole a bow and quiver when they stopped to make camp, ran off in the night. Found the Dalish four days later.”

For lack of anything better to say, Dorian offered the only thing he could. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had to confront these truths before. I’m not perfect, but I am trying. I apologize for my words, and flippancy. I won’t say I’m sorry for you, because I suspect the last thing you want is pity.”

Branael chuckled, and Dorian had forgotten how much he’d missed the sound. “No, we can’t have that.”

“Did he… did…”

“He touch me? No, Mother made sure I was out of there before that happened. Hell, I’m sure she would have tried to kill him herself if he’d even tried. So no, being a slave is not better than starving, knowing you can’t refuse, that your life, your entire continued existence is at the mercy someone else and their whims- you feel like nothing. We may have been poor before, but I remember being happy in the Alienage, remember having friends.”

“And your father? Do you think he’s still in Antiva?”

Branael shook his head. “No. Mother said he died soon after I turned one. I don’t remember him. I do have people I consider like parents in my clan though. The clan’s master craftsman and his wife took me in and raised me. It may have been a hard life, being wanderers, but it was a good life. I was fortunate to find them.”

“I’m glad you got away. I was an ass that day, Inquisitor.”

He rolled his eyes at Dorian. “You didn’t know.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“You said it yourself. You never knew any different until you came here. Your eyes are clearly open now.”

It was Dorian’s time to laugh it off. “I think you are being too kind.”

Branael shrugged. “Perhaps. But if a former slave and a Tevinter Altus can use this to grow and become friends, it may motivate others to as well. That you’re here trying to help us, speaks to that. Do better; be better. You said it yourself. It’s the only way things are ever going to change.”

Dorian’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “You consider us friends?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You’ve treated me with nothing but kindness since we’ve met. We’re from two different worlds; it’s true, but I can’t use the sins of your family, of your countrymen, of my former master against you to hate you. I’m too old for that; it’s not worth my time.”

He turned to face Branael. “I’m glad.”

“For what?”

“That you consider me a friend.”

“Me too.”

“Though I’m not sure I deserve that yet, but I promise to try and earn it. Thank you for telling me, for trusting me.” 

Branael gave him a small nod and retreated to camp, leaving Dorian sitting on the rock. Though he hated the countryside, and the mud, and the rain- nature in general, there was something quite peaceful out here. Sure, looking out at the surf made him queasy, but the salt air was refreshing. Then and there he made the decision that he would, in fact, be the one to change things in Tevinter.

  
  
  
  



End file.
